by Annie Haynes
Reason as he would he could not rid himself of an uneasy sense that there was something wrong, that Cynthia was in some peril. When he reached the platform he saw that Sybil was walking briskly up and down; with a shamed feeling that he was in some sense a spy he betook himself to the waiting- room until the train came in; then, carefully keeping out of her sight, he made his way to a smoking compartment as far away from her as possible.
It was a slow train. Though Farquhar kept a careful look-out at the various stations he saw nothing of Sybil until they reached Clastor. There he waited until she had alighted and passed quickly through the booking-office. As he followed more quietly, he saw that Gillman was waiting outside in his dog-cart. Evidently Sybil was expected, and Farquhar asked himself again what could possibly be the reason of this extraordinary journey and how far Cynthia’s connexion with it went.
As he stood in the road outside the little station and watched Gillman’s trap bowling away in the distance, and reflected upon the weary miles that lay between him and the cottage on the moor, he was inclined to think that he had been a fool for his pains.
Gleeson was just bestirring herself to set her cup of tea, when the sound of the opening gate made her look round, and she saw Farquhar coming up the path. She lifted up her hands.
“Eh, Sir Donald, and here I have just been fretting myself to death thinking I might not see you for years, and you walk in at the gate your very self! You look tired, sir.”
Farquhar threw himself down on the seat in the porch.
“So you would be if you had walked from Clastor, Glee!”
“You never have, Sir Donald!” The old woman looked at him. “Then you’ll not say another word until you have rested. I’ll bring you your tea here.”
She bustled into the house to make her preparations, and presently reappeared with a dainty tray.
Farquhar did ample justice to her providing, and as he ate and drank he related the events that had brought him back.
“What do you make of it, Glee?” he asked.
Gleeson’s face was very grave.
“I misdoubt me it means some harm to the poor lamb, Sir Donald. Mr Gillman would stand at nothing to serve his ends. When I think of her and my lady both in his power my heart aches sorely. What will you be going to do, Sir Donald?”
“I don’t know. Now that I am here I do not seem to be any good,” Farquhar said slowly; “but I could not go away and leave things in this uncertainty.”
“Bless you, Sir Donald, no!” Gleeson agreed heartily. “You know I was always against your going. It does seem to me as her nearest of kin ought not to rest till my lady is out of that villain’s hands.”
“If she hugs her chains, if she will not let us take her away, what are we to do, Glee?”
“I can’t say that I rightly see the way, Sir Donald, not yet; but I shan’t believe as my lady wants to stay in that lonely place until I hear her say so with her own lips. If I was you, Sir Donald, I should walk up to Greylands in the morning and insist on seeing Miss Cynthia.”
“Perhaps I had better.” In spite of his resentment against her Farquhar’s heart leapt at the prospect of meeting his cousin again.
Already the gloaming was setting in, and as he watched the shadows deepening on the moor his uneasiness grew, his conviction that some danger threatened Cynthia increased, and at length, feeling the impossibility of remaining inactive until morning, he determined to walk as far as Greylands, and, though it was too late to ask to see Cynthia, at least to give himself the satisfaction of feeling that he was at hand should she need any help or service.
It was dark when he reached the pine-wood; he could just see that there were lights in the upper windows at Greylands. After waiting some time he tried the gate and found that it was locked. Evidently it was useless to attempt to get inside, and it was difficult to see what use he could be outside the walls. Nevertheless he could not bring himself to go back, and after waiting some time longer he turned and walked slowly round the fence that encircled the pines. As he did so, he heard a noise within. Evidently some one—a man—was running about among the pines, brushing the undergrowth aside and plunging through it recklessly, uttering every now and then a sharp exclamation or a smothered imprecation; then a dog barked.
Wondering what it might mean, Farquhar paused. The sounds were not so audible now; the man, whoever he might be, was getting farther away. Farquhar still waited; at length he bethought himself of the little gate opposite the wood. It was possible he might find that open. It seemed to him that the mystery was deepening, and the necessity to assure himself of Cynthia’s safety was becoming more imperative.
As he turned the corner at the end of the pine shrubbery, his thoughts intent on what was going on inside, he ran violently into a man coming from the opposite direction.
“What—I beg your pardon—” the stranger began. Then, with a start of amazement, “Sir Donald! I had no idea you were in this neighbourhood!”
“Mr Barsly!” Farquhar’s tone was one of unmixed amazement. “Is there anything wrong?”
The lawyer coughed.
“A good deal, I am afraid, Sir Donald. In fact, matters that have come to my knowledge have been so unsatisfactory that I decided to come down myself, and—what was that?”
It was a slight noise, almost like a sob, sounding close to them, evidently just on the other side of the fence.
Both men were silent, but not the least movement was to be heard now, and Farquhar was beginning to think that it must have been merely some animal in pain, when across the stillness of the night there rang a woman’s shriek, a long piercing cry of anguish.
Chapter Twenty-Two
“FIVE! Six! Seven! Eight!” Cynthia sat up in bed and listened. Eight o’clock!
She would have to get up without delay if she meant to catch her train. She threw back the bedclothes. Over-excited by the terrible discovery of the preceding day, she had been unable to sleep. Distracted by anxiety as to her cousin’s fate, and by fears for her own safety, she had tossed restlessly about in her bed and had only towards morning dropped into an uneasy doze.
There was a knock at the door, and Sybil, looking bright and smiling, came in with her breakfast tray.
“I knew you would be a wreck this morning,” she said, looking with pitying eyes at Cynthia’s pale face and the deep purple shadows near her temples, “and I made up my mind you should have your breakfast in bed.”
Cynthia looked at her, feeling heavy-eyed and barely awake. In the clear morning light, glancing at Sybil’s smiling face, it seemed to her in that first moment that she must have dreamt that dreadful discovery in Lady Hannah’s bedroom, that it could not have taken place; but as Sybil drew forward the little table and placed the tray upon it, she caught sight of the ugly inflamed scratch on her wrist, and shuddered from head to foot.
Sybil drew her brows together as she marked how Cynthia shrank from her, but her tone was playfully affectionate as she poured water into a basin and brought it to her bedside.
“There, when you have sponged your face and hands and had some breakfast you will feel better.”
“You should not have troubled,” Cynthia said slowly, as, feeling somewhat refreshed, she leant back among her pillows. “Indeed, I ought to have been up long ago, for I must get over to Glastwick as soon as I can. I want to catch the morning express.”
Sybil looked disappointed.
“You have quite made up your mind not to go to Biarritz with us? I wish you would, Cynthia. How I shall miss you!”
The tone was perfectly natural. Looking at the clear, limpid eyes, at the pretty smiling mouth, Cynthia found it almost impossible to believe that Sybil had consented to become a party to the plot that would in any way injure her; but she could not doubt the evidence of her own ears, and she knew that it behoved her to be careful.
“You are very good,” she said with apparent carelessness, “but I must try seriously to get a situation now. I have been idle quite l
ong enough, and I do not think it would be wise to leave England.”
“Must you really go this morning? Do make a good breakfast, Cynthia—you ate nothing yesterday.”
Cynthia toyed with one of the daintily-rolled slices of bread and butter.
“I should like to get to London as soon as possible,” she said.
“Well, they say we ought to speed the parting guest.” Sybil poured out a cup of coffee and held out the silver jug of hot milk to Cynthia. “I will go and tell Cousin Henry he must be prepared to drive you to the station. I suppose it will do if you start in an hour’s time.”
“I suppose so,” Cynthia answered, setting down her cup with a wry face. “There is rather a funny taste about the coffee this morning, Sybil, I think.”
Sybil pouted.
“Funny taste, indeed! When I took ever so much trouble with it to get it exactly right, and my old French nurse taught me just how it ought to be done!”
Cynthia took another sip.
“It is generally very nice, but this morning it seems somehow different.”
“It must be your mouth. I hope you haven’t got indigestion, Cynthia? Have some cream?” Sybil caught up the jug and poured out a liberal supply. “I don’t think it an improvement myself, but I know you like it. Isn’t that better?”
“Yes, I think so,” Cynthia agreed doubtfully. “I—I dare say my taste is wrong. I have scarcely slept at all.”
“That is it, then. There is Cousin Henry in the garden. I will go and ask him about taking you to the station.” Sybil hastened out of the room.
Left alone, Cynthia, telling herself that she would need all her strength for the journey that lay before her, did her best to make a hearty meal, but it seemed to her that there was a disagreeable taste about everything.
“It is all right,” Sybil said, running back.
“Cousin Henry says that he is very sorry you are going, but he will drive you to the station. You naughty girl, Cynthia, you haven’t eaten your egg.”
“No, I can’t. My head aches rather. Do you mind leaving me, Sybil? I have a good deal to do if I am to be ready.”
Sybil did not look quite pleased.
“Oh, certainly, if you would rather I went away!” Then, relenting somewhat as she noted Cynthia’s listless movements. “Yes, I will go. I know it is horrid to be bothered when one is dressing. Only I am so sorry to lose these last few minutes with you, but I shall come back presently!” And with a laughing nod she turned away.
Cynthia sprang out of bed and began to dress herself. Though she had allowed Sybil to ask Gillman about driving her to the station, she had no intention of waiting for him. She meant to leave her luggage to be sent after her, to get out of the house unobserved if possible, and to make her way through the pine-wood to the cottage on the moor. There, even if she should not find Farquhar at home, she would at least be able to consult with Gleeson as to what course to pursue in the circumstances.
As she brushed out her hair her thoughts became vague and confused, and an overwhelming desire for sleep assailed her. She looked at the great four-poster longingly. Surely she would have time to lie down for a minute or two; but as she crossed the room towards it her limbs felt heavy and nerveless, her head began to ache intolerably, black spots floated before her eyes; she clutched at the bedpost. She was going to be ill, she thought despairingly, and she was alone in the power of a man whom she believed to be utterly unscrupulous. Then, as she looked wildly round, she caught sight of her empty cup, and with the certainty of inspiration the truth flashed upon her.
“Drugged!” she said slowly as she fell forward. “I must have been drugged!”
She never knew how long she lay there in a heavy induced slumber. When next she opened her eyes the sun was high in the heavens, and for the first few minutes she was conscious of nothing but a feeling of deadly nausea, a dull sickly aching in her temples. Presently, however, the recollection of what had happened recurred to her, and, catching at the bed-curtains, she pulled herself up. The room was darkened and oppressively hot; some one had been in and closed the window and drawn down the blind. Cynthia’s limbs were strangely weak and shaky as, catching at the furniture, she managed to get across the room and push the window up; the air revived her, the blood rushed back to her torpid brain, and she realized something of her danger and knew that her only chance lay in dissimulation. She tried her door; it was locked on the outside. She was a prisoner! As she crossed the room again she heard the sound of wheels in the drive, and she peered out. Sybil sat by Gillman’s side in the dog-cart, which was driving towards the house.
To Cynthia’s intense amazement she saw that Sybil was wearing her brown coat and skirt, the one in which she herself had intended to travel that day.
Marvelling what it could mean, Cynthia leaned forward. Sybil was laughing and talking to Gillman as if she had not a care in the world. She was carelessly folding up a motor veil. Cynthia could not see Gillman’s expression, but he was looking down at the girl’s bright, upturned face with an air of almost lover-like attention.
Cynthia’s eyes grew dark with fear.
“Why is she wearing my dress?” she questioned herself. “With that motor veil on she might almost be taken for me. Did she mean to be?” The blood receded from her heart as she turned faint and sick.
Presently Cynthia heard the outer door open and close, and then Sybil ran lightly upstairs to her own room. A few minutes later the instinct of self-preservation made Cynthia fling herself on the bed just as the key was cautiously inserted in the lock.
Sybil opened the door softly.
“Cynthia, are you awake? Cynthia!”
Though every nerve was throbbing with nameless terror, though her pulses were beating like sledgehammers, Cynthia constrained herself to open her eyes slowly.
“Yes!” she said weakly. “Yes! Is it Sybil?”
“Yes.” The girl came into the room. She was wearing her own blouse and skirt now, and there was no trace of hurry or travel about her dress or her elaborately-arranged hair. “What a long time you have been asleep, Cynthia! I have been in two or three times, and Cousin Henry got ready to take you to the station, but you were so sound asleep that we could not find it in our hearts to disturb you, so you will have to wait till to-morrow. How do you feel now?”
Cynthia passed her hand over her eyes.
Prepared as she ought to have been by her previous knowledge of Sybil’s duplicity, she was yet utterly taken aback by this fresh evidence of her treachery, but she saw plainly that her only hope now lay in appearing to acquiesce in Gillman’s plans and in keeping herself ready for the first opportunity that offered for making her escape from Greylands.
“I do not feel very well, thank you!” she said slowly. “My head aches worse than ever, but I dare say it will go off in a while if I get up.”
“I hope so,” Sybil was beginning; then, as the blind moved in the air, her glance wandered to the open window.
Her expression changed, a hard look came into her eyes, and for one second she compressed her lips tightly.
“I think it will be better for you to stay here,” she said authoritatively. “You are certainly not strong enough to get up yet. I will bring your luncheon to you.”
Cynthia realized that she had made an irrevocable mistake—that Sybil knew that she had been out of bed, that her suspicions were aroused, and that she herself was virtually a prisoner. A few minutes later the fact was brought home to her more fully, when Sybil, after having supplied her with an ample luncheon, calmly locked the door as she went out.
Parched and faint though she felt, Cynthia was too much afraid of being drugged again to touch the food; she took a long draught of water from her water-bottle and finished her dressing. As she caught sight of her face in the glass she could hardly believe that she was looking at her own reflection, so wan and heavy-eyed was it. Outside on the landing she could hear voices, Gillman’s and Sybil’s. She knocked loudly at her door and demanded to
be let out, but call as she would there was no response.
At length, feeling the uselessness of appealing to her captors, she went to her window, but a glance told her that it was hopeless to think of escaping that way: there were no creepers on the old stone walls of Greylands, and there was a clear drop of twenty feet at least from the sill. She turned back and sat down on the edge of the bed.
The knowledge that she was in sore danger, that she was at the mercy of a man who would stop at nothing to gain his own ends, seemed in some sort to brace and steady her nerves. She turned her mind resolutely from the subject of Lady Hannah’s fate. Terrible as were some of the misgivings that would present themselves to her when she recalled the various events, trifling perhaps in themselves and capable of an explanation when taken alone, but of terrible and sinister significance when reviewed together, she told herself with a shudder that she could not, dare not think of them now. The more she reflected upon her own situation the more desperate did it appear, but with the further knowledge of the difficulties in her way there came the determination to overcome them at all costs. The initial step was to get out of Greylands.
An idea flashed into her mind; she had heard of bedclothes being fastened together and of marvellous escapes from giddy heights being effected by their agency; it would surely be possible, even should the door be kept locked, for her to lower herself by them from the window. The sheets were strong and of a good size, and it would not be difficult to tie them together. She decided to make the attempt after dark, and thus minimize the danger of being seen by Gillman.
Already it was growing dark, and she began her few preparations. Making her little store of money and the jewellery she had with her into a parcel, she fastened it inside her dress. Then she began to put her rope together; it was not a hard task to make the knots firm, but when it was completed she glanced at it doubtfully; it did not look exactly the thing to trust to, she thought, and she very much doubted her own ability to get down by it. It seemed, however, to offer, at any rate, a chance of freedom, and she determined that no cowardice on her part should prevent her from availing herself of it. But she wanted something to which to fasten it, and she began to drag forward the heavy bed-stead. As she did so a sound caught her ear—a sound she had heard the night of her arrival—that of some one digging in the shrubbery. Despite all her resolution she quailed as she stood and listened.
